


Whatever It Takes

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 18:03:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14141538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: A scene set immediately post episode 13X14 Good Intentions. Season 13 spoiler warning! The reader wants to do whatever it takes for the self-doubting Castiel to feel supported. Da fluff tho.





	Whatever It Takes

“Dean’s right, you know.”

Castiel ceases rummaging through the paper flotsam of his topmost dresser drawer to glance up at you leaning against the frame of his bedroom door with your arm’s crossed. 

The storm-dark hue of his normally bright eyes reveals his internal strife; yet, the stern line of his jaw overpowers any regret he might feel over the matter to exude a stolid determination of demeanor. His focus falls back to the contents of the drawer before he speaks, tone unapologetic, but muted, “I did what needed to be done.” Dean’s judgement he can suffer. Sam’s too. However, hearing your words and knowing he disappointed you – the one human who never casts a shadow of doubt on the righteousness of his intentions – agonizes him. It makes his mind repeat with increasing contention the issue of why he was brought back. Why he must continue to endure further pain when he has sacrificed everything including himself time and again only to be resurrected and balanced at the precipice of losing it all. He’s weary of playing a game of false hope rigged to prevent his ever winning. 

He feels the air shift as you move into the room – the subtle familiar sweet scent of your sweat bitter comfort in light of the bleak circumstances. 

“No, not about Donatello.” You lay a reassuring palm to his arm, lightly squeezing grasp stilling his sifting fingers.

His turbulent regard rises to search yours, the unspoken question of what you mean swirling in the squint-subdued thundercloud blue of his irises. Believing it is undeserved, he fights the rush of relief of flooding his senses at the possibility your belief in him persists in spite of the unthinkable act he committed.

Perceiving his uncertainty, you clarify, “I mean, Dean’s right about why Jack brought you back. We need you Cas.” Attention dipping along with your whispered cadence, you watch your thumb caress the sandy beige fabric of his trench coat, fingers drifting lower until they reflexively clasp over the broad breadth of his hand. You gulp against the trepidation tightening your throat when you notice the pebbled blue cover of Jimmy Novak’s passport unearthed beneath his fingertips. Repressing the worry with resolve, you continue, “I’m not talking about needing your heavenly power to back us up or your proclivity for using yourself as an angelic shield any time we’re threatened.” A tight smile pinches the corners of your mouth as your tear-pricked eyes lift to meet his, uttering the sentiment, “I’m talking about needing _you_.”

Tongue swiping the arid pink pout of his lips, he shakes his head. Unshaven chin nodding to his chest, he acknowledges aloud the gravel-murmured thought that has burdened him since his return from the Empty, “Sometimes I think you – all of you – would be better off never having known me.”

Adamant despite his doubt, your grip knots through his fingers and constricts until your knuckles blanch white with the force of your devotion. At the same time, your free hand cradles and molds to the scruff of his cheek to belay the tenderness of affection held for him in your heart. Compelling his grim gaze upward, you avow, “I know that’s not true, angel, and so do you. I heard what you said to Donatello. About not letting anyone hurt the people you love. I feel the same way Cas. And I swear as long as there’s life left in me, I’m not letting anyone _I_ love get hurt either. That includes _you_. I’m not losing you again. Do you understand?”

The dark lines of his strained features blur and soften with fondness. He missed this. _Misses_ this in the chaos of the day to day struggle to simply survive. Somehow your love is fierce enough to overcome every fight. Every separation. Every obstacle. And every doubt he holds. 

Tenseness easing from his vessel, he slides an arm around your waist to draw you near. Fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shirt to spark upon the warmth of bare flesh. He leans to bury a lingering kiss into your hair, hot breath tickling your scalp as he murmurs, “I understand.” He does understand. What’s more, he feels the truth surging from your heart to wash over him in waves. 

It remains an enigma to him how, in all of creation, of all the billions of souls roaming the realms of Heaven, Hell, and Earth, providence brought a hapless creature like himself to your shore. You, the singular being capable of piecing together the fractured shell of his existence in a way that makes him feel complete.

“Good,” you exhale a sigh of relief into his shirt and return his melting embrace. Remembering the passport, you add, “So, wherever you’re going, I’m coming with.”

His muscles go rigid. Fingers encircling your upper arms, he inclines backward to peer into your resolute countenance. “It’s not safe.”

Cocking your head, shrugging, you smirk and snort, “Have those words of warning ever stopped me? Besides, it’s not going to be _safe_ anywhere when Michael drops in on this universe, now is it?”

“Sam and Dean wouldn’t approve,” he counters.

You quirk an amused brow. “Really Cas? After what went down today you’re going with whole _Sam and Dean wouldn’t approve_ speech?” You’re right, of course. Even barring today’s events with Donatello, it’s a weaker reason than that of threats to your safety to hold in front of you as a barrier.

“I see the flaw in my argument,” he admits the err in logic with a compact defeated frown.

You reach up to straighten his tie and smooth the lapels of his coat. “Then it’s settled. Where are we off to, angel?”

“Y/N-”

“Castiel,” you warn against further protest.

“Fine,” he huffs. He knows better than to roll his eyes at you, and so he suppresses the urge. “Syria. It’s the last place I am aware of where there grows a tree of life that bears fruit.”

“Syria?” you gasp. “It’s a war zone. You weren’t kidding about it not being safe.”

“You could stay here and help Sam and Dean obtain the other ingredients,” he offers, hopeful you’ll take him up on the idea to stay out of harm’s way.

The smile adorning your aspect immediately dismisses the notion. “And miss flying halfway around the world into danger with you? _Never_. I haven’t been on a plane in ages. The mile-high club is still a thing, right? You think they’ll give us those adorable little packs of peanuts? You never had any fun snacks stowed in those pockets of yours when we flew together-”

“You always said flying with me made you nauseous,” he interrupts your prattling, tucking the passport inside his coat and elbowing the dresser drawer shut.

“Did I?” Your forehead furrows, neurons reaching for the remembrance. “Nah,” you hum, “probably just making excuses for the butterflies that used to flutter around in my stomach anytime I was around you.” You bounce to your tip-toes to peck a quick kiss to his lips.

“Used to?” he grumbles, crestfallen to learn he doesn’t have the same exhilarating stomach-churning effect on you any longer that you have upon him. Winding his arms around you to forestall your retreat, his soft lips shape to yours, adoration sensually swelling in challenge until you moan, mouth parting in temptation for his tongue to taste your passion. The swift intensity of his plunging kiss ignites and tickles your trembling nerves to stoke the flame of lust smoldering in your lower belly.

Clinging to him, dizzy when his mouth leaves you panting for air, arousal flits and flaps in your stomach. Seeking escape from the fire blazing in your core, the delicate wings of proverbial butterflies set into frenzied motion are engulfed in flickering desire.

A self-satisfied smile graces the seraph’s mouth and glimmers to shine in his gaze. For a moment, a blissful fleeting moment, nothing else in the universe matters nor has it ever really mattered at all.


End file.
